


Uncool

by Cesare



Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-16
Updated: 2006-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesare/pseuds/Cesare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after the end of Queer as Folk UK, Stuart grows up, sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncool

There comes a point in every man's life when he has to admit he's lost  
the epic battle to keep his cool.

Stuart was far past his expiration date in this respect, but it still  
came as a bit of a blow. Most men probably lost their cool when they  
fell in love and went bumbling about in a haze, all too willing to do  
just _anything_ for the object of their affections. Stuart, though,  
had fallen for Vince, who'd conspired with him for years to preserve  
Stuart's unshakable cool.

Still, it had only ever been a matter of time, and Stuart's time was  
finally up.

Saturday morning, Alfred came bounding into their room and onto the  
bed-- as always, managing to jab one of his few sharp angles directly  
into one of Stuart's few soft spots.

Once he was through wincing and biting back curses, Stuart unwound  
himself from the covers and hurried Alfred out so they wouldn't wake  
up Vince, who hadn't been getting enough sleep since he'd caught the flu.

Standing in the hall outside their room in his bare feet and pyjama  
bottoms, shushing his son, Stuart was already further from cool than  
he felt comfortable.

"Daaaaad," Alfred said, which didn't help matters at all. "Dad,  
there's no peanut butter."

"So?" Stuart asked.

"So I want a peanut butter and grape sandwich."

"Well, you'll have to have something else, won't you?"

"How come?"

Stuart rubbed his eyes. "Cos there's no peanut butter?"

"Can't we go buy some?"

"What's wrong with cereal?"

"I don't _want_ cereal."

"There's probably some more peanut butter tucked away in the cupboards  
somewhere," Stuart decided optimistically. "We'll just have a look."

He stood Alfred up on the kitchen counter so the boy could reach the  
cupboards. After a thorough exploration it was clear there was no  
peanut butter in the house.

"Have a Pop Tart," Stuart suggested.

"There's not any grape ones."

"There's blueberry. That's the same colour."

Alfred stuck his lip out, but he took a Pop Tart and chomped a bite  
out of the side.

"Yuck," he said. "It doesn't taste good."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's all dry and ugh." Alfred looked up at him with big needy liquid  
eyes.

Alfred hadn't been hit by the flu as badly as Vince had, but he had  
been ill, and he hadn't been able to keep much food down for a couple  
of days, so it seemed best to indulge him. Stuart sighed and lifted  
him down from the counter. "Peanut butter, eh?"

"Please?"

"Put your shoes on," Stuart capitulated, and went back to their room  
to dress.

Vince was still sleeping the sleep of the diseased, shadows under his  
eyes, his nose red and chapped. He was breathing through his mouth,  
which he only did when he was hideously congested, and wouldn't it  
have been nice to go an entire lifetime without ever knowing something  
like that about another person?

Nevertheless Stuart didn't want to wake him, so he quickly ransacked  
the bureau for socks, shirt and trousers, and quietly headed for the  
bath. No time to shave, but he was fairly certain he could pull off a  
reasonably sexy can't-be-bothered look with beard shadow and an  
untucked button-up, so long as his hair was stylishly askew.

"Dad! I'm ready to go!" Alfred yelled from the first floor.

Still buttoning the shirt, Stuart went to the top of the staircase and  
yelled back, "Quiet down! I'll be right there!" and then rolled his  
eyes at himself; he'd easily been louder than Alfred. He hopped about  
putting socks on, shoved his feet into a stray pair of loafers, and  
made his scruffy way down the stairs.

It was wet and windy outside. By habit, Stuart drove all the way to  
the Harlo's where Vince had once worked, rather than going to the  
nearer Sainsbury's. Once they were at the shop, he looked down and saw  
how drastically he'd miscalculated.

The trousers he'd grabbed were a rather sharp pair of cords; together  
with the loafers they completely undermined the loose ends, bed-headed  
look he'd been trying for. He didn't look casual, just untidy. The  
weather doubtless hadn't been kind to his hair either.

Alfred wanted to carry the basket, and after they found the peanut  
butter, he decided he wanted apples too. He picked out a pair with  
slow deliberation.

A look in the mirror behind the produce confirmed that Stuart's  
attempt at a sort of rumpled, offhand come-hither mien had come off  
more like a rumpled, offhand go-away. He didn't look hung-over,  
debauched, and beddable, as he'd intended. He looked like the  
overtaxed parent of a rambunctious young child.

Stuart waited for the inevitable crowning touch. Someone was going to  
see him in this state, someone whose gaze would be unspeakably  
humiliating. Might be an ex-shag that would assume he'd permanently  
fallen from his pinnacle of gorgeousness to this wretched nadir.  
Perhaps a wannabe rival, someone like Mark or Rob, who'd gloat,  
assuring themselves that they'd never leave the house looking so badly  
thrown-together. At the very least, he'd be looked over and dismissed  
by some nice young bloke with a basket full of skinless chicken  
breasts and yoghurt.

"Da-ad, can I have this?" Alfred asked, waving a magazine.

"All right, give it here," Stuart took it, still contemplating the  
odds of getting out of the shop with his tattered cool intact.

He didn't. It was door number three; the bloke was young, hot, and  
bleached-blond. His basket contained shrimp, spirits and mixers, but  
otherwise he was exactly as lovely and exactly as disinterested as  
Stuart had pictured, with the added sting of an indulgent little smile  
as the bloke took in the whole picture of Alfred tugging at Stuart's  
one hand and-- Stuart glanced down and for one moment genuinely longed  
for sudden death-- not a magazine after all, but a Winnie the Pooh  
colouring book in Stuart's other hand.

So that was it. At the age of thirty-five, RIP, Stuart's cool was  
irrevocably a thing of the past.

If Stuart couldn't be assured of cool any longer, he might as well be  
considerate and responsible; he had nothing to lose for it now. "Come  
on," he led Alfred to the medicine aisle. "We're going to pick up some  
stuff for Vince."

"Dad, let's get doughnuts," Alfred said as Stuart studied the back of  
a box of TheraFlu.

"The whole reason we came out here was because you said you absolutely  
had to have a peanut butter and jam sandwich for breakfast," Stuart  
reminded him. He reversed a box of Advil Cold & Flu Remedy and  
compared it to the TheraFlu. The Advil didn't seem to cure as many  
symptoms, but it had better copywriting.

"Can I... we could, um, I can have peanut butter for _lunch_ and then  
we can have doughnuts for breakfast. Vince likes doughnuts," Alfred  
said, twisting his hand in Stuart's, drifting down the aisle to try to  
see the bakery. "It can be like a surprise."

"Vince doesn't like anything solid right now," Stuart said, tossing  
the TheraFlu into the basket. "Quit squirming, Alfred, don't go  
wandering off."

"Hiya," Alfred said to a bloke ambling down the aisle.

"Hi," the man said, with weird, sarky amusement in his voice. "Didn't  
your dad ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"

Australian accent. Stuart glanced up from a package of sinus decongestant.

Stuart hadn't thought to include Vince's ex-boyfriend among the people  
he dreaded seeing him just now. But now that it was happening, he  
found that being spotted at this low ebb by Cameron dealt a special,  
exciting new blow to his battered vanity.

Cameron certainly seemed to be savouring the moment, scrutinising  
Stuart at his leisure, his eyes crinkling with undisguised pleasure.  
No doubt this was partly because Cameron himself was looking not too  
bad, considering. He looked every bit of forty-two or so, but he wore  
it well enough.

"Well, who have we here? Long time," he said, his tone just a little  
biting. He must have gathered from Vince how much Stuart hated  
thinking about his age.

It should've sent Stuart right into his bitchiest, most defensive  
mood, but instead, bizarrely, he found himself cheering up.

"Ages," he said. "How've you been?"

"Good," Cameron said, thrown.

Stuart gave Cameron his professional smile. "Glad to hear it," he  
said, scouring any trace of nastiness out of his voice. "This is  
Alfred. You remember, mine and Romey's son."

"I remember," said Cameron, now out and out bewildered.

"Alfred, this is Cameron."

"Hiya!" Alfred said, and to Stuart's absolute glee, he set down the  
shopping basket and stuck out his free hand.

"Hi." Cameron shook Alfred's small hand, looking more and more  
uncertain and misplaced, like a man shoved abruptly into an episode of  
the Twilight Zone-- or even, Stuart thought, Doctor Who.

"I'm five and a half," Alfred went on, picking up the basket again.

Cameron mustered up a smile. "Imagine that," he said. "Last time I saw  
you, you weren't even a half."

"I remember you," Alfred said with perfect aplomb, "you're the bloke  
that got all ate up by the dinosaur."

Cameron raised his eyebrows at Stuart.

"Five and a half," Stuart shrugged.

The older man hesitated, a short searching pause, and regarded Stuart  
with fading suspicion. Then he said, as though he just couldn't help  
himself, "How's Vince?"

It must've really killed him to ask, and he never would've done it if  
Stuart hadn't disarmed him with a smile. Stuart congratulated himself  
on this subtle, brilliantly evil tactic. Sometimes he planned these  
things so well, he even got ahead of himself.

As guilelessly as he could, Stuart said, "He's fantastic." Half a beat  
and then he gestured to the medicine box. "He has a touch of flu just  
now actually. But he's doing well." Stuart dropped the sinus medicine  
into the shopping basket and said jovially, "We live in Swinton now,  
but we keep coming back here to do the shopping. Force of habit."

If he wanted to rub it in, Stuart could easily mention some of the  
trappings of their success together, the house, the travel, the  
adventures. But he didn't feel the need, any more than he felt the  
need to insult Cameron. He wasn't sure why, but it didn't matter, or  
he couldn't be bothered. Something.

This was turning out to be much more fun anyway. He could see how  
confused Cameron looked, like he was wondering if he'd had Stuart all  
wrong, five years back.

He hadn't, but let him wonder.

"Vince said you showed my mum and Lisa `round the outback," Alfred  
piped up. "Where's the outback?"

"Sorry?" Cameron asked.

"That wasn't real, Alfred," Stuart told him, twigging to what he  
meant. "Remember? That was just a bedtime story."

"He said a dinosaur bit your head off," Alfred went on.

Stuart wanted to hug him; he'd never been more proud. He only held off  
because he didn't want to risk interrupting in case there was more.

There was more. "He said it chewed and chewed," Alfred finished. "Like  
a gobstopper!"

Nothing Stuart could add to that could possibly make it any better.  
Taking a moment to compose himself, Stuart just schooled his  
expression to mild concern and reiterated, "It's this bedtime story  
Vince tells him. Vince makes it up as he goes along."

Cameron looked entirely lost. To him this must have seemed like some  
strange parallel universe, where Stuart, rather than being a malicious  
bastard, was friendly, while Vince, rather than being a hapless  
good-natured pushover, was fantasising about Cameron's bloody demise.

Vince's ex had sussed out Stuart rather well five years before, Stuart  
would admit to that. But though he'd seen through Stuart to some  
degree, Cameron had never really understood Vince. Otherwise this  
wouldn't be coming as such a surprise.

"If it's any consolation," Stuart couldn't resist adding, "I think  
most of his other ex-boyfriends tipped up as villains. At least you  
got to play tour guide."

Cameron narrowed his eyes with that look Stuart remembered, that hard,  
unimpressed look. "What about you?" he asked. "Where are you, in this  
story of his?"

"I don't have to be in the story," Stuart said. "I'm right there."

At that Cameron gave a hint of a laugh, short and private. "Well," he  
said.

"Well," Stuart replied. "I'll tell Vince you said hi, shall I?" and  
there was no pretending he'd meant that as anything but a dig.

Cameron gave him a withering look. "Of course. You'll tell him  
everything," he said. "Nice," he raised an eyebrow and let his gaze  
rake over Stuart in all his dishabille, "seeing you again."

"Oh, you too," said Stuart insincerely. "Take care."

"There's Scooby-Doo Band-Aids," Alfred reported once Cameron had gone.

"D'you want them?"

"No. I don't like Scooby-Doo. Was he mad when he died? Mum tried  
telling him to duck," Alfred said, "but he was too busy bossing them  
about."

"I bet," Stuart grinned.

"Can I have some gum?"

"You can have whatever you like."

They went through the line. The bleached-blond was at the next  
checkstand. He glanced over and gave Stuart a once over; he smiled  
again, and this time, a little more in the manner to which Stuart was  
accustomed.

Just about then, Alfred started singing the Winnie the Pooh song, off  
key and with no lyrics other than "Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh,  
Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, Winnie the Pooh," with a  
boundless enthusiasm that promised he'd be singing it the whole way  
home, and possibly for the rest of the day.

Stuart took his hand and couldn't stop smiling. "Come on, Pavarotti,  
let's go home."

As they left, he saw Cameron again, and gave him a jaunty wave while  
Alfred jumped up and down, yelling, "Bye! Bye!"

After all, no matter how old Stuart was, Cameron was just that much  
older, and no matter how grotty Stuart looked at the moment, he was  
only a change of clothes and a shave away from looking his usual  
magnificent self.

And even those consolations didn't matter all that much, because  
ultimately, even if Stuart was thirty-five and scruffy and quite  
bereft of cool, he was here with his devastatingly cute and  
intelligent son, and he was the one going home to Vince.

He should be nice to people more often. Living well really was the  
best revenge.


End file.
